“And do you, Buzz Jawpuncherson, take Doug Antideathbomberdon to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Buzz clenched his jaw and stared into the eyes of his groom.

“I do,” he said in a voice like barrels of toxic sludge rolling out the back of an armored personnel carrier.

Before the pastor could continue, the side of the church imploded. As the fireball roared towards the families of the soon-to-be-betrothed, Buzz and Doug dove opposite directions, taking cover behind the tasteful flower arrangements stacked at either side of the dais. The pastor was not so lucky — a molten chunk of shrapnel ruptured his skull like a watermelon.

His ears ringing, Buzz peeked out, and watched in horror as an army of armored gunmen surged through the smoldering hole in the wall.

As his hand went to the holster at his ankle, Buzz caught Doug’s eye. So much for a day off.

With a grin, Doug reached behind the pastor’s pulpit and retrieved an M240, a light machine gun fed by a belt with hundreds of bullets.

“Always have to outdo me, don’t you,” shouted Buzz, as Doug stood and began to spray the invading troops.

Buzz dove down the aisle, letting off a string of shots that each found their targets, snapping back the heads of several gunmen. Doug covered him, laying down a ferocious wall of fire.

In a gun fight, Buzz could feel time slow down. Blood pounded in his temples, a metronome, as he surveyed the situation. Soldiers continued to pour into the church, taking up defensive positions in the pews in order to avoid Doug’s withering fire. The wedding guests had broken and run, but they were beginning to regroup, taking cover behind pillars on the opposite side of the church. Soon they would mount a counteroffensive.

For now, though, it was up to Buzz and Doug to hold them off.

Up above, Buzz saw a chandelier swinging wildly. Without a second thought, he aimed at the chains holding it to the ceiling and severed them with a staccato burst. Down came the chandelier. When it hit the ground, it shattered, sending shards of glass careening through the ranks of their assailants. The distraction was perfect — it bought Buzz just enough time to vault the pews and get within arms’ reach of the nearest soldier.

Grunting, Buzz snapped an elbow into the man’s face, reaching with his free hand for the barrel of the assault rifle and shoving it in the direction of the other shoulders. As the soldier reflexively squeezed the trigger, Buzz spun him around, directing the hail of bullets at the latest group to charge through the gap in the wall. His enemies reeling, Buzz snapped the soldier’s neck with a well-placed palm thrust and wrenched the assault rifle from his limp hands.

Now properly armed, Buzz selected his shots carefully, aware that most of the bullets in the weapon’s magazine were already gone. A few careful one taps later, he dove to the ground, rustling through the dead soldier’s gear in search of a new magazine.

Before Buzz could finish reloading, a hulking, armored soldier reared above, preparing to plunge a bayonet down into his neck —

But not before Buzz’s mother, a kind lady in her sixties, separated the soldier’s head from his body with a fluid swing of her katana.

“Thanks, Ma,” said Buzz as she crouched beside him. The headless body of the soldier squirted blood all over them, but they were too busy enjoying the family moment to notice.

“No problem, kiddo,” said Mrs. Jawpuncherson, squeezing his cheek. “You’re still my little guy!”